Castle Gripsholm

by Kurt Tucholsky

  ‘Whom shall we annoy now?’

  ‘You’re going too far. Nothing but silly pranks in his head, and he wants to be a serious man!’

  ‘I don’t want to . . . Have to. Have to.’ We went outside.

  Some way off was a little pavilion, where the group from the car was sitting, drinking coffee. We strolled past chatting to each other. The younger of the two men got up and came over to us.

  ‘You’re from Germany . . .?’

  ‘Yes,’ we said.

  ‘Well . . . would you like to join us at our table perhaps?’

  The fat man got to his feet. ‘Teichmann,’ he said. ‘Direktor Teichmann. My wife. My niece, Fräulein Papst. Herr Klarierer.’

  Now I had to reply, because that’s the custom of our country after all.

  ‘Sengespeck,’ I said, ‘and my wife.’ Whereupon we sat down and the Princess kicked my shins under the table. Coffee. Plates rattling. Cake.

  ‘Very nice here – I take it you’ve come on an outing too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Charming. Very interesting.’ Pause.

  ‘Er . . . tell me . . . is the castle actually inhabited?’ The Princess kicked me hard.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe it is. No. Certainly not.’

  ‘Ah . . . we thought perhaps . . .’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Significant looks were exchanged.

  ‘We just thought . . . it seemed to us we heard someone talking in one of the rooms – but strange, more like a dog, really, or a wild animal . . .’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I think I can assure you there are no animals living in the castle. Or almost none.’ A pause.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ said Herr Direktor Teichmann and looked around, ‘there’s not much going on here! Don’t you find?’ We agreed nothing went on here. ‘You know,’ said the Direktor, ‘if you really want to enjoy yourself, there’s only Berlin. Or possibly Paris. But really only Berlin. It’s in a class of its own. No?’

  ‘Hm-’ we murmured.

  ‘And I don’t think it’s at all smart here either!’ said Frau Direktor Teichmann.

  ‘I imagined something completely different,’ added Fräulein Papst. ‘Where shall we go tonight in Stockholm?’ asked Herr Klarierer. But Frau Direktor Teichmann didn’t feel like going out; the episode in the castle had made her nervous. By now, the Princess had twisted a ring from my finger and opened one of my cuff-links, all under the table – and I thought that was enough. Who knows what else she might . . . So we took our leave, saying we were expected in the town.

  ‘Are you going back to Stockholm later on?’

  No, we were afraid we weren’t.

  We were still ‘afraid not’ when we were standing in the meadows again, and happy; happy that we didn’t have to go to Stockholm, that we were in Sweden, that we were on holiday . . .

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the Princess, who had eyes like a hawk. A thin row of little figures was coming through the meadows, on one of the narrow paths. ‘What is it?’

  They drew nearer.

  They were children, little girls in pairs, all in a line, like a double-row of pearls. A bossy-looking person was leading them, glaring round all the time – none of them were talking. As they came closer to us, we stepped aside to let the procession pass. The leader threw us a glittering look. The children trotted on. We didn’t speak as they filed past us. At the very end was a little girl on her own; she walked as though she were being pulled along, her eyes were stained with tears, she still sobbed occasionally as she walked, but she wasn’t crying. Nor was her face puffy, as a crying child’s sometimes is . . . instead, it looked as though it had been emptied of tears; there was a golden shimmer in her brownish hair. She looked at us as she might have looked at a tree, tired and indifferent. In a fit of exuberance and kindness, the Princess offered her a couple of harebells we had picked. The child quivered, then looked up, her lips moved; perhaps she wanted to say something, to thank her . . . but just then the woman at the front turned round and the little girl quickened her step and hurried after the troop. Dust and the sound of the children’s marching feet. Then it was all over.

  ‘Funny little girl,’ said the Princess. ‘What sort of children are they? Let’s ask later. Peter, my son, do you get Northern Lights here? I’d so like to see some Northern Lights!’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course, but everything you want to see, my daughter, happens the month you’re not there . . . Life’s like that. But that comes in the next lesson. Northern Lights – yes . . .’

  ‘I think they must be lovely. I saw them once as a child, in an encyclopaedia. That was a world of its own, too, that encyclopaedia, with its little leaves of tissue-paper. There they were, illustrated, the Northern Lights, very big and bright, they’re meant to cover half the sky. I think I’d be terribly scared if I saw them. Just imagine, big coloured lights in the sky! What if they fell! And landed on your head! But I would love to see them just once . . .’

  The pale-blue sky arched over our heads; at one point on the horizon it turned a deep dark-blue, and where the sun had gone down earlier, it glowed a rosy yellow, and shone and twinkled a little.

  ‘Lydia’, I said, ‘shall we make our own Northern Lights?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Look,’ I said, and pointed up at the sky, “you see, you see – there – there they are!”

  We both looked fixedly up – we were holding hands, our pulses and our blood flowed from one to the other. Just then, I loved her more than ever before. And then we saw our Northern Lights.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Princess quietly, so as not to frighten them away. ‘It’s marvellous. Light-green – and there – pink! And spirals – and that, so high . . . Look, look!’ Now she dared to speak louder, because the Northern Lights were up there like the real thing. ‘That looks like a little sun!’

  I said, ‘And that, that’s curdled milk and there, baby cirrus-clouds . . . blue . . . light-blue!’

  ‘Look, and the horizon, I’m sure it just goes on and on – it’s all silver grey. Oh Poppa, isn’t it beautiful!’

  We stood still and looked up. A wagon rattled past and made us start. The farmer, sitting on the driver’s seat, waved to us and looked up himself to see what it was. We looked first at him, and then at the meadows, which were cold and grey. A little ashamed, we smiled. We looked back up at the sky. There was nothing there. It was smooth, blue and twilit. There was nothing.

  ‘Peter . . .’ said the Princess, ‘Peter . . .’

  4

  ‘Could you tell us, Frau Andersson,’ I said to the castle lady, who had just wished us good evening – I pronounced her name correctly, ‘Andershon’ – ‘who were those children we saw earlier? Back . . . back in the meadows?’

  ‘Ah yes, there are many children. They are farmers’ boys who gather and play there . . .’

  ‘No, no. They were little girls walking along in a very orderly line, like an institute or a school, something like that . . .’

  ‘A school?’ Frau Andersson thought for a while. ‘Ah! They are Frau Adriani’s children. From Läggesta.’ And she pointed to the other side of the lake, where you could just see a large building in a clearing. ‘That’s a boarding school, a children’s home. Yes.’ She had an expression on her face such as I had never seen before. I grew curious. Now, it’s conventional wisdom that it’s better not to ask a direct question – because then you won’t get the answer you’re looking for.

  ‘There must be a lot of children there . . . are there not?’

  ‘Yes, a holy mess,’ said Frau Andersson; you often had to guess at her meaning a little, as she probably translated everything directly from the Swedish. ‘There are many children boarding there, but not many Swedish children. Praise God!’

  ‘Why praise God, Frau Andersson?’

  ‘Jaha,’ she said and veered away like a hunted rabbit, ‘there are not many Swedish children, ne-do!’

  ‘That’s a shame
,’ I said, thinking I was being awfully subtle. ‘It must be very nice there . . .’

  Frau Andersson was silent for a moment. Then, courageously, she took a little run-up. She lowered her voice.

  ‘There is . . . it isn’t a good woman who is there. But I don’t want to speak evil . . . you understand. A German lady. But not a good lady. German people are so friendly – not true . . . Please don’t mistake me!’

  ‘You mean the headmistress of the boarding school?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frau Andersson. ‘The headmistress. The head-distress is a bad person. Everyone here thinks that. She’s not to our taste. She’s not good with the children.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, and looked at the trees, whose leaves trembled slightly as if they were shivering. ‘Well – not a good lady then? What does she do wrong? Does she shout at the children?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Frau Andersson, and she turned to the Princess, as if this was a matter exclusively for women, ‘she is hard to the children. The headmistress . . . beats the children.’

  The Princess gave a start. ‘Doesn’t anyone mind then?’

  ‘Jaha . . .’ said Frau Andersson. ‘She doesn’t beat them that hard. So the police can’t say anything. She doesn’t hit to make the children sick. But she is unfair, the children are afraid from her.’ She pointed to a castle-like building on a hill behind Mariefred: ‘I prefer to be there than with that woman.’

  ‘What is that building?’ I asked.

  ‘That is a mental asylum,’ said Frau Andersson.

  ‘And so the mental patients are better off than those children?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frau Andersson. ‘But I want to see now whether dinner is ready . . . one minute.’ And she went away hurriedly, as though she’d said too much.

  We looked at one another. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, well, it happens,’ I said. ‘Probably some demon of a woman, applying the iron rod.’

  ‘Peter, play me something on the piano till it’s time for supper!’

  We went into the music room of the castle, which the lady had said we could do, and I sat down in front of the little piano and played a few cheerful melodies. I stayed mostly on the black keys; they are easier to hit. I played:

  Sometimes I think of you,

  but it don’t agree with me . . .

  because the next day I feel so tired –

  and:

  Ah, the hedgehogs at eventide

  were off chasing mice,

  and I was hanging on your lips –

  We sang old folk-songs and American songs, and then a riding-song which we had composed ourselves, and which was completely idiotic from beginning to end, and then supper was ready.

  We had got hold of a bottle of whisky. It wasn’t easy, because we didn’t have a Motbok, the little booklet that entitles you to buy spirits in Sweden. But we had got the bottle. And it hadn’t even been that expensive. Blonde and brunette . . . Black and White . . . here’s to you . . .!

  We sat at a wooden table in front of the house and looked over at the castle.

  Every now and again, we took a sip of whisky.

  The old church clock struck ten – ten o’clock. The air was still; not a leaf moved on the trees – all was peaceful. White nights. There was a feeling of rigidity, as if something was building up and nature was holding her breath. Light? It wasn’t light. It just wasn’t dark either. The branches loomed black; they were waiting. As if the skin had been stripped from everything: the night stood there shamelessly, without darkness, deprived of blackness. You wanted to conjure up the black cloak of night, and throw it over everything, so that nothing could be visible any more. The castle had lost its burning red, and looked a dull brown, then murky. The sky was grey. It was night, without being night.

  ‘It should always be as quiet as this, Lydia – why is there so much noise in life?’

  ‘Dear boy, you won’t find silence any more these days – I know what you mean. No, it’s been lost for all time . . .’

  ‘Why doesn’t it exist?’ I went on. ‘There’s always some noise. Someone knocking, or music, or a dog barking, or someone tramping about in the flat above, windows rattling, the phone ringing – God should have given us earlids. We’ve been incorrectly designed.’

  ‘Stop babbling,’ said the Princess. ‘Listen to the silence instead!’

  It was so quiet, we could hear the soda singing in our glasses. Our drinks stood in front of us, a brownish colour; the alcohol was quietly entering my bloodstream. Whisky removes your cares. I can easily imagine someone destroying himself with it.

  A bell rang in the distance, as though frightened out of its sleep, then everything was quiet again. Our house was a grey-white colour; all the lights were out. Silence arched over our heads like a giant bowl.

  At that moment we were both quite alone, she on her female star, and me on my male planet. Not enemies . . . but far, far apart.

  From the brown whisky three or four red ideas climbed into my blood . . . crude, indecent, squalid. They came, whooshed past, and then they were gone. My mind retraced the shape the feeling had sketched. You swine, I said to myself. There you are, you’ve got this wonderful woman . . . you’re a dirty old man.

  We’re all animals underneath, said the swine. Don’t fool yourself!

  I won’t have it, I said to the swine. You’ve caused me so much pain and unhappiness, so many bad hours . . . not to mention the fear I might have picked up some infection. Forget about those subterranean adventures! They’re not even that wonderful – you just imagine they are!

  Hehe! snorted the swine, so it’s no fun? Now just imagine . . .

  Quiet! I said. Quiet! I don’t want to.

  Oui, Oui, the swine said and wallowed shamelessly; just imagine there was . . .

  I killed it. For the time being, I’d killed it – let’s say I shut the sty. I could still hear it rumbling away crossly . . . then the glasses were singing again, very, very quietly, like the hum of a mosquito.

  ‘Poppa,’ said the Princess, ‘do you think it would be all right to wear the blue suit I brought with me?’

  I was back with her; we were sitting on the same planet again, rolling through the universe together. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do.’

  ‘Is it suitable?’

  ‘Of course. It’s quiet and discreet, should be perfect.’

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ she intoned with her deep voice, ‘or you’ll be sick again, and who has to put up with the consequences? Me. Put your pipe away.’

  As her son, I put the pipe away, because that’s what my mother wanted. Quietly I laid my hand in hers.

  5

  The big house in Läggesta had been built by masons – who else. Craftsmen; quiet, thoughtful men, who look three times before they do anything. It’s the same the world over. When it was finished, they plastered the walls, and some of the rooms were painted, many more were papered, all differently, and according to their instructions. Then they had gone away phlegmatically. The house was finished; it didn’t matter what happened in it now. That wasn’t their affair, they were only the builders. The courtroom where people are tortured was, to begin with, a rectangle of brick walls, smooth and whitewashed. A painter had stood on his ladder and whistled cheerfully as he painted a grey stripe right round the room, as he had been told to; as far as he was concerned, it was a piece of craftsmanship . . . and now, all at once, it was a courtroom. People build theatres for future scenes with complete detachment; they erect a stage and wings, they construct the whole theatre, and then others play their sad comedies there.

  The child lay in bed, thinking.

  Thinking . . . A long time ago, when she still had a father, she always used to play at ‘thinking’ with him. Her father had laughed so; he had a marvellous laugh.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the child would ask.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ her father would say.

  ‘I want to think too.’

  ‘Fine . . .
you think too!’ And he would earnestly pace up and down the room, with the child following him in an exact imitation of her father’s posture, with her hands clasped gravely behind her back, and wrinkling her brow the way he did . . .

  ‘What are you thinking?’ her father would ask.

  ‘I’m thinking – a lion!’ the child replied. And her father would laugh . . .

  Next to her, Inga breathed hard and tossed in bed. The child was suddenly back where she really was: in Sweden. In Läggesta. Mummy was in Switzerland, so far away . . . the child felt a flush of heat rising inside. She had written so many imploring letters, well, three, only three really – and then the Limb of Satan had found out that one of the maids had been secretly posting the letters. The maid was sacked, the child had her hair pulled, and now all letters to Switzerland were vetted. Perhaps it had to be like that. Perhaps her mother had no money to keep her at home, and it was cheaper up here. That was how her mother had explained it.

  She was so alone here. Quite alone among the other thirty-nine girls, and she was afraid. Her life consisted of nothing but fear. Fear of the Limb of Satan and of the older girls, who would tell on her whenever they could, fear of the next day and of the day before, from which things might come to light. Fear of everything, everything. The child didn’t sleep – her eyes made holes in the dark.

  That her mother could have sent her here! They had been here once before, three or four years ago – and her brother Will had died. He was buried in the churchyard at Mariefred. The child could sometimes visit his grave, when the Limb of Satan let her or told her to. Usually she told her to. Then she would stand by the little grave, the fourteenth row on the right hand side, with the little headstone, where the letters still gleamed as new. But she had never cried there. She only cried sometimes at home for Will – fat little Will, who was younger than she was, and wilder at games and a good boy. Now and then Mummy had had to smack him, but it never hurt, and he laughed under his child’s tears and would be a good little fellow again. As if he was made out of rubber. And then he became ill. Flu, people said, and four days later he was dead. The child still remembered the hospital smell. But all that hadn’t happened here, it had happened in Taxinge-Näsby, a name she’d never forget. The sour smell, the ‘Hush!’ as everyone went around very quietly on tiptoe, and then he had died. The child had forgotten how. Will wasn’t there any more.